


copywritten (so don't copy me)

by etben



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:44:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/pseuds/etben
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, <i>shit</i>," Stiles says, and flops as far backward as their mysterious body-swap connection will let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	copywritten (so don't copy me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ziusura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziusura/gifts).



> Set in a nebulous s3-ish time when Stiles is a senior and things are more or less not terrible. Liberties have been taken with chronology, what we know of s3 canon, plant meanings, and basic calculus. Thanks to soundslikej for audiencing despite not knowing the canon, to drunktuesdays for cheerleading and offering suggestions about Derek's allergies, and to misspamela for making sure I didn't accidentally give Derek three hands and four dicks. 
> 
> Written for ziusura for the TW_Holidays exchange; originally posted [here](http://tw-holidays.livejournal.com/24216.html).

"You know what, _fine_ ," Stiles says, throwing up his hands. "If it's going to be so easy to live my life, fine—just go ahead and do it." 

Derek scowls. It’s kind of a trip, seeing Derek’s usual murderous expression on Stiles’ own face, like a carnival mirror, or listening to a recording of your own voice, the subtle kind of _wrong_ that’s hard to put a finger on. Also, wow, Scott was right, Stiles does kind of look like an angry chipmunk when he makes that face, who knew. Meanwhile Stiles is over here, stuck in Derek’s ridiculously built body, trying not to accidentally put his claws through anything delicate.

Oblivious to Stiles’ inner monologue, Derek stomps towards the front of the house, where he wrenches the door open and stops.

"Car keys are in your pocket," Stiles says. "Don't mind me, I'll just be here, living your life, oh gosh, it's so complicated, how will I ever manage." He turns around and sits down on the couch—

—except for how he doesn't, actually. He turns around, and he tries to take the two extra steps to the couch, but his legs don't move; he lifts his feet up and puts them back down in the exact same spot, despite his best efforts.

"Um," Stiles says, looking down at Derek's stupid boots, Derek's stupid feet that don't want to do what Stiles' brain is asking them to do. "Derek, I think we've got a probl—" which of course is when his feet come back online, carrying him over to the couch in a barely-controlled rush. Stiles sits up, spitting out a mouthful of partially-decomposed pillow fluff, and turns around to give Derek a piece of his mind—

Derek, who is now standing just slightly inside the entryway, maybe three feet away from the door. As Stiles watches, he turns around, lifts his feet—Stiles' feet, attached to Stiles' legs, which are in turn attached to Stiles' torso, everything as per spec except for how apparently Stiles' _brain_ has taken a vacation to _el Cuerpo del Lobo_ —and puts them back down exactly where they were before. 

"Oh, _shit_ ," Stiles says, and flops as far backward as their mysterious body-swap connection will let him.

*

Their range turns out to be a little less than ten feet.

"Which makes sense, because that was about the radius of the magic circle," Stiles says. "Also, can I just point out how deeply bizarre it is to say a sentence like that?"

They hadn't been planning on disrupting a witchy ritual in the woods. Stiles had been on a plant-gathering expedition, looking for various mystical green shit with which to make life a little less insane. He hadn't asked Derek to come, but it hadn't surprised him at all to see Derek waiting at the head of the trail; Derek can be weird about the definition of a reasonable level of risk. Storming a nest of pixies armed with a baseball bat: totally legit. Walking through the forest on a sunny day, picking sorrel, bleeding hearts, and hairy purple bells: requires a bodyguard.

The witch had been in a clearing at the top of a hill, chanting and waving her arms, flowers in her hair and around her wrists; they hadn't even realized that they'd stepped into the circle until she'd spun around to stare at them.

" _Fuck_ ," she'd said, and that was the last thing Stiles heard until he woke up staring at his own face. Upon further reflection, Stiles thinks she had the right idea.

"Okay," Stiles says, after a long moment of silence. "Okay, so: what's our plan?"

Derek frowns. "You'll stay here until we figure this out," he says. "It's not safe, otherwise." He nods, just a little, as though this settles the matter.

"Right, okay, no," Stiles says. "That's great, and I'm honored by your concern for my welfare, but there are two big issues with that." He ticks them off on Derek's long fingers. "Number one, I'm a minor, and my father's the sheriff, and he gets freaked out when I'm away from the house for too long. And he _definitely_ knows I'm out here, because I told him where I was going." It's part of this new thing they're trying: Stiles lets his dad know when he's going to be doing various supernatural-inclined shit, and in return his dad doesn't completely flip his lid when there are occasionally werewolves in his living room.

"And second of all," he says, "I have school tomorrow, and there is no fucking way I'm flunking my calculus test because of some two-bit witch in the Preserve." If he flunks the test, it's study halls until the end of time, and Stiles was really looking forward to having a free block again ever. He sighs. "Also, all of my books on weird witchy shit are at my house, and the sooner we get those, the sooner we can figure out a way to fix this."

Stiles figures that if he were in his own body, Derek would be as expressionless as ever, but his muscle control seems to be a little less perfect when he's working with borrowed tools; his eyes are noticeably wider, his hands clenched on the edge of the table. 

"I failed calculus," Derek says, finally.

Stiles nods. "Right, so," he says. "My house?"

*

Stiles is halfway up the front steps of his house when he feels a tug on his sleeve—a tug that, when he looks over, turns out to be Derek, grabbing onto his arm and glaring. 

"What?" Stiles spreads his hands. "Seriously, Derek, what's the problem?"

"Is your dad home?"

"Yeah, he's—" As soon as he thinks about it, he _knows_ : his dad got home about an hour ago, checked the mail, brought in something from the front porch—probably the herbs Stiles ordered, _score_ —went inside, had a sandwich, took a shower, and sat down on the couch to go over paperwork and pretend to watch the football game. Without even trying, Stiles can hear _everything_ : the rustle of the paper and the _scritch_ of a pencil, the quiet crunch of potato chips, the announcer from the game.

It's U of M vs. OSU; the Buckeyes are up 4, and Stiles frowns. His mom had been been the only person in the family to really care, but they both watch the games when they're on. Inside the house, his dad grunts and mutes the game, smelling like annoyance and sadness and—

—and oh. Oh, _shit_. Stiles steps back, tugging his arm away—Derek's arm, fuck, Derek's arm and Derek's body and Derek's freaky senses—and then steps forward again when Derek overbalances, windmilling his arms. Stiles catches him with an arm around his waist, pulling him back from the edge of the bottom step, and, god, has he always been this skinny, or is it just that Derek is so freakishly _strong_ that his body doesn't even notice this shit—

Distantly, Stiles notices that he's breathing kind of fast, fast enough that normally by now he'd be in full-on panic attack territory, but his throat doesn't close up. Instead, he just keeps breathing, and with every breath he can smell _more_ , can smell the house and his dad and the broccoli he forgot to put in the fridge and the dish soap on the counter and the shitty hand-rolled cigarettes that Isaac likes to come and smoke on his back porch—

—and suddenly there are hands on his arms, on the back of his neck, pressing him slowly but steadily against a flannel-covered shoulder until all he can smell is detergent, sweat, deodorant: familiar scents, the things he always smells like. It's stronger than usual, and now that he knows that this is what he smells like to a werewolf nose, he may never recover from the awkwardness, but it's good, it helps, and slowly he stops getting lost in the incredible complexity of the smells that make up his everyday life.

"That's right, yeah, okay, just focus on those smells," Derek's saying, right up against this ear. "Good smells, nice Stiles smells, come on, just—"

"—if you're about to tell me to follow my nose," Stiles warns him, "I may have to rip your throat out with my teeth." Talking gets him a mouthful of flannel, and he lifts his head, only to freeze when he hears a very familiar voice say, " _Stiles_ " from right behind him.

"Um—" he starts, reaching instinctively for an explanation, but Derek's hands tighten on his shoulders, shoving him back down.

"Oh, hi, _Dad,_ " Derek says, digging his nails into Stiles' skin. "Derek was just kidding, right, _Derek_?"

"Um, yeah," Stiles says, when Derek lets him lift his head again. "Totally kidding, totally and completely definitely kidding, not going to rip anybody's anything out of their…anything else. Sorry, D—sir." His dad doesn't look completely reassured, but he also doesn't have his hand on his gun, which is probably for the best.

"Well, son," he says, "in that case, do you think you'd like to come inside before Mrs. Weston notices your…situation?" 

Which is when Stiles realizes that somewhere in that smell-induced panic attack, his face went totally wolf-ified, and he has legitimately _no idea_ how to put it back.

*

"Okay, so just—you have to—" Derek takes a deep breath, his hands on Stiles' shoulders. "Focus," he finishes.

"Yeah, okay," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "Focus on _what_ , exactly?" He's never exactly been the poster child for undivided attention, and being able to smell everything and everybody within a five-mile radius is definitely not helping.

"On being human," Derek says, as if that explains anything.

"Right, but, like—how?" Stiles has been human his entire life; for most of that time he hadn't even realized that there were other options on the table. He hasn't been paying attention to what 'being human' feels like, and he says as much. Derek glares at him, but in a way that makes Stiles think he gets it, and then they sit there for a while, just breathing together. Derek's hands are still on Stiles' shoulders, holding them in sync, and it's not even a little bit hard for Stiles to hear the pulse beating there, a slow, steady thump.

"Okay, um," Derek says finally. "Think about—think about what you did this morning."

Stiles thinks. He didn't do much—going out to the woods had been Item One on the Sunday agenda—but he does his best to think about the morning. Morning, human, morning, normal, _human_.

"Stiles," Derek says, after a pause.

"I'm _trying_ ," he says, and he is, but nothing just keeps on happening. "Fuck, I'm going to be stuck like this forever, and you're going to flunk my calc test, and Chris Argent is going to shoot me, and—"

"No," Derek says, which, actually, _yes_ , because Stiles is many things but he is not actually good enough to catch Derek up on a month and a half of calculus between now and 8:24 on Monday morning. "No, I mean—don't just think about it, _talk_ about it," Derek adds, which, okay, whatever.

"Um," Stiles starts, thinking back. "I got up at nine or so? Or, well, Scott texted me," _do you think allison likes bluebells_ "and I texted him back," **fuck you pick your own flowers also I think those grow in europe** , "but I didn't actually get up for a while after that."

"Why not?"

"I was tired?" Derek narrows his eyes, but nods, and Stiles continues. "So, yeah, I was in bed for a while, I guess, and then I—" _jerked off_ , which is something he has no intention of saying out loud, please and thank you. " _—rested_ for a while, and then I got up, and then—"

"Where by _rested,_ " Derek interrupts, "you mean that you—" He doesn't take his hands off of Stiles' shoulders, but he makes a very expressive gesture nonetheless.

Stiles can feel himself blushing. "Yeah, I jerked off." He raises an eyebrow. "Is that important?"

Derek shrugs. "When I was 14, I got stuck as the wolf for a while—couldn't figure out how to switch back, didn't have the control." He pauses for long enough that Stiles almost asks what the hell that has to do with anything, until finally a few things click together in his brain—control, the wolf, the sharp smell that's been edging around the edges of Stiles' awareness for the last few minutes—and he bursts out laughing.

"Are you telling me," he wheezes, "are you seriously telling me that you turned back into a human being so that you could _jerk it_?" he says. "Oh my god, you are fucking kidding me, that is ridiculous, you're trolling me right now."

Derek doesn't blink, doesn't even crack a smile; his pulse kicks up a little, probably from embarrassment. "The claws are a hassle," Derek says. "You're good."

"At..." Stiles looks down at his hands, which have gone back to their usual pink-skinned glory; grabs his (delightfully un-hairy) face. "Hey, that wasn't so bad," he says, which is of course when his dad knocks on the door.

"Stiles? I have to go back to the station—want me to get pizza on the way back?"

Derek stares blankly at the door until Stiles reaches out and shakes him, nodding frantically.

"Yeah," Derek says. "Sure. Dad."

There's another long pause, and Stiles can hear his dad leaning against the door.

"Derek, if you're still around, you're welcome to join us," he says. 

"Um, yeah? Thanks," Stiles says, and then spins away from the door the second his dad starts back down the stairs.

"Books," he says, flipping through his collection of magic-related resources. There are two in particular that he's thinking of—one on the properties of magical plants and herbs, and one on spells of transformation; he hands the first to Derek and keeps the second for himself.

Cracking the spine of his book, Derek nods. "Books."

*

"Scarlet pimpernel," Derek reads. "Symbolizes transformative life changes." He tilts the book so that Stiles can see it, and yep: those are the flowers the witch was wearing as a crown. Stiles sighs.

"So, okay— some sort of transformation spell—she wanted to make something change?" Which, well. _Something_ definitely changed. "But she can't have been trying to switch bodies, because there wasn't anybody else there." There's something there, a whisper of an idea, and Stiles keeps going, trying to pin it down. "It wasn't supposed to be a transformation spell, it was supposed to be a spell for some _other_ kind of change—" It hits him, and he grabs the plant book back from Derek, flipping to the back. "Derek, the plants she was holding—could they have been clover?" He finds the page and drops the book open: _Clover (Trifolium repens)—protection, luck, good fortune._

"She was trying to do a good luck spell?" Derek sounds disgusted, and Stiles can't honestly blame him.

"I think I know the spell she was using, too." It's not in _Transformations du corps et de l'esprit_ or any one of the more serious magic books Stiles has been borrowing from Deaton; it's straight out of _Have A Magical Life!_ , available at Barnes and Noble for $5.99 plus tax.

It was a gag gift from Scott; Stiles didn't expect it to have legitimate applications. The cover is in _Comic Sans_ , for fuck's sake.

They grab the book, and there it is in _Chapter 12: Make Your Own Luck!_ : Clover (to be worn at the wrists or held in the hands), a circle ( _your circle of influence!_ ), and an incantation that, even to Stiles' mostly-inexperienced eye, looks like a load of bull.

"But it doesn't call for the pimpernel," Derek says.

"Maybe she added it in? Wanted to make it bigger, give it more umph?" Derek nods. "And then we interrupted, and the spell took a different form." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Great—we couldn't even get cursed by a witch who knew what the fuck she was doing. Although, hey, here's something," he says. _"'Although your initial circle of influence will be limited to a distance the size of your circle, as the magic permeates your astral form—'"_ Derek rolls his eyes, and Stiles shakes his head. "Believe me, I know, but this actually looks useful. _'As the magic permeates your astral form, your circle of influence will expand.'"_ He raises his eyebrows significantly, and Derek seems to get it, because he stands up just as Stiles does, moving quickly to the door. He makes it all the way down the stairs and into the living room before pulling up short; Stiles can feel an odd tug behind his breastbone when Derek leans into the spell. Forty feet, now; maybe a little more.

"Okay, so, that's a good sign—if that holds steady, that's, what, fifteen extra feet per hour? _Awesome_." Derek raises an eyebrow. "Except we're still in the wrong bodies, right, okay."

"How long is it going to last?" 

Stiles looks down at the book, skipping the incantations and several paragraphs about the glory of the natural world. "Okay, here we go," he says. " _Your good fortune will endure four hours for every foot in the radius of the circle._ So four hours per ten feet—"

"—eight."

"— _eight_ feet, fine—that's, what, thirty-two hours?" Derek nods. "Yeah, okay, thirty-two, starting from 11 AM on Sunday means we're stuck until…Monday night. Seven o'clock. _Fuck._ "

"Call Deaton," Derek says, but Stiles shakes his head.

"No good," he says. "With a spell this small, you're generally better off waiting it out—and without knowing what other changes she might have made, any kind of counter-magic is going to be more dangerous than it's worth, so there's no point in calling Deaton unless you really want to get laughed at." Speaking of which— "Fuck. Scott's going to have a field day with this."

"Don't tell Scott," Derek says, grabbing Stiles by the elbow. "Stiles, you _can't_ tell Scott."

"What? Why not?" But the question answers itself almost before Stiles is done asking it; they can't tell Scott because Scott will tell Allison, and if Scott tells Allison, there's a small but non-zero chance that Chris Argent will find out, and if Chris Argent finds out, there's an extremely large chance that something terrible will happen to one or both of them. "Right, okay—alpha werewolf in a puny human body, chance too good to miss, murder forever, got it." Stiles leans back against the desk, thumping his head against the particleboard. "And we can't tell anybody else in the pack, for the same reason." Derek nods, resting his elbows on his knees. "Can't tell the pack, no point in telling Deaton—we could tell my dad, I guess?" Except, _no_. "So I guess it's just you and me, huh?"

Derek nods; Stiles would be offended by the face he's making, except he's pretty sure that he's making the exact same face. Really, the situation could be so much worse, but that doesn't mean he's exactly thrilled about it. Especially since—he pushes himself to his feet, goes up faster than he expects, overbalances, and catches himself, all in the blink of an eye. It's weird, it's _so_ weird, but thinking about that too much is just going to distract him from the more pressing issue. He grabs the relevant book from his desk and drops it onto the floor in front of Derek, who looks at the cover with wide eyes.

"Calculus," he says, and Stiles nods.

"Calculus."

*

Really, the whole situation could be so much worse—it's only October, so Derek doesn't have to catch up on an entire year's worth of material. Plus, Stiles spent all of Saturday studying, so everything is as fresh in his mind as it's ever going to be.

"Pretty much all we've done so far is review last year," Stiles says, digging out his calc notebook. "So, like—trig, basically, and limits. You took trig, right?" 

Derek rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure—ten _years_ ago," he says. "I took calc, too, but then—" he shrugs, makes a vague gesture that Stiles assumes is supposed to mean _my crazy werewolf hunter girlfriend burned my entire life to the ground_. "Pretty sure I only graduated because Mrs. Fresser took pity on me."

"Oh, man, you had Fresser too?" Stiles makes a face. "I'm not kidding, when this is all over, we need to seriously consider the possibility that that woman is actually a vampire. Like, has anybody ever seen her eat human food? Do we know where she lives? Because—"

"Stiles." Derek taps the textbook. "Focus?"

"Right." Stiles grabs the notebook back, skips to the end. "So the test is trig, basically, and then a bunch of stuff about the definitions of different kinds of functions, and then some stuff on limits." He sighs. "And, I mean, you don't actually have to ace it—like, if you can just manage to not completely tank, that would be awesome."

"I'll do my best," Derek says. "Do you have the study packet?"

"Yeah, sure," Stiles says. "Not that it will do you much good, because—"

"—if you haven't learned it by coming to class, you're certainly not going to learn it from a piece of paper," Derek quotes along with him.

"Seriously, as soon as this is all done, I'm going to get Allison to figure out her home address and we're doing a stakeout," Stiles says. "That shit is _not_ natural."

"Whatever," Derek says. "You have a pencil?"

*

It takes them a few hours, but Derek does okay on the trig stuff. It's weird, watching him work; he stares at each question for several minutes, tapping the point of the pencil on the page, and then starts writing in small, neat cursive.

"Do you know, I don't think I've ever seen you write anything down?" Derek rolls his eyes without looking away from the page. "No, I mean—there hasn't been a ton of call for it, you know?"

"Stiles." Derek sets the pencil down. "Is this really relevant?"

"No," Stiles says, and then, "except, yes?" Derek raises an eyebrow, which is such total bullshit, because Stiles practiced for years before deciding that his body just wasn't capable of the single-eyebrow thing, which is clearly not true, and how does that even work? Which, not the point: "I'm just saying, if my handwriting suddenly changes, it might look weird?"

"You mean if it's suddenly legible?"

"I'm going to ignore that, because I'm the bigger person," Stiles says. Ordinarily, it wouldn't matter—math is math, after all—but Fresser is big into having people write out the reasoning behind their answers, which means that Stiles' math homework looks more like an essay than anything else. "Just—I don't know, can you just print or something?" Derek rolls his eyes again, but does the next problem in a tidy all-caps print that, while still not resembling Stiles' actual handwriting, is at least less jarring. "Right, okay, so you should have…" he checks his notes. "The limit approaches one half?" 

Derek does, and he gets the next three right, too, and everything is going pretty well, which is of course when Stiles' dad gets home.

*

"So, Derek." Stiles' dad is on his second slice of meat-lovers' pizza, and Stiles wants to remind him of his cholesterol levels, but he takes a deep breath and thinks, _Derek Hale_.

They'd discussed it before dinner, whispering frantically in the hallway while Stiles' dad grabbed down plates and glasses.

 _"You have to_ talk _, okay?"_ Derek had made a face, and Stiles had grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing him up against the wall. _"No, listen—if we're going to sell my dad on this, you have to be me, which means you have to_ talk _, okay, because the man has spent the past seventeen years living in a house with me and not_ once _have I shut up when he asked me to, so you are just going to have to get over your whole 'strong and silent' deal and find something to say, okay?"_

 _"Fine,"_ Derek had said, _"But that means that you have to shut up, okay?"_ Which, fair point. That time, when Derek had tried to shake himself free, Stiles had let him. There had been a mark on Derek's neck, just at the collar of his shirt, right where Stiles' thumb had been pressed, and Stiles had looked away in a hurry.

 _Derek Hale, Derek Hale, Derek Hale,_ he thinks, trying to force himself to tune out the sound of his dad's heartbeat, and says, "Calculus."

"Calculus," Stiles' dad says, in his _I am not impressed by your alibi, but I'm willing to let you revise it into something more plausible_ voice. Stiles has had a lot of experience with that voice; it's pretty much him and the criminals of Beacon Hills.

"Yeah," Derek says, after a pause that seems to stretch on for hours. "Derek is—he's actually really good at calculus, so he's helping me out." Not quite up to Stiles' personal best, but also more words than Derek usually manages in an hour; Stiles is willing to call it a win.

"I thought you were passing calc," Stiles' dad says, reaching for another slice.

"Yes?" Derek glances at Stiles, eyebrows tilted—what, did he think Stiles _wasn't?_ "But, you know, it's good to be ahead of the curve, make sure I know what's going on."

"Well." Stiles' dad chews, takes a sip of his beer. "That's very generous of you, Derek," he says.

"Thanks," Stiles says. "But, uh—I should probably go." Derek's eyes go wide and startled, like he thinks Stiles is abandoning him, which, okay, maybe fair, but the longer Stiles stays here, the more likely it is that he's going to smack a slice of pizza out of his dad's hand, which is not going to contribute to their cover story at all. "Do you want—I mean, um, text me if you have any questions," he says, and Derek nods.

"Have a good night, son," his dad says, and Stiles bolts before he can break down and tell his dad everything.

Outside, he ducks behind the tree in the front yard; fumbles in his pocket until he finds Derek's phone; scrolls to his own number in the contacts; taps out a text: **sorry i could hear his heartbeat and it was weird**. Inside, he hears his phone chime, hears Derek grab it out of his pocket, hears the tiny _click_ of the keys, all of it layered over with the sounds of his dad cleaning up the pizza boxes and the plates, rinsing out his beer bottle, breathing slow and quiet, his heart ticking along in a steady _thump-thump_.

The phone buzzes in his hand: **it's okay.** Before Stiles can explain how very _not_ okay it is, the phone buzzes again. **also fuck you why am i THE WOLFINATOR in your contacts**

 **because that's hilarious?** Stiles sends back, because it _is_ , and somehow this, texting with Derek, makes everything—not okay, exactly, but less ridiculously terrible. **do you want me to come back? i can make the window i guess** , he sends, even though from down here his bedroom window looks like it might as well be on Mars.

"You okay, son?" His dad sounds concerned, and Stiles has a split second of wanting to run back inside and explain everything, but stays where he is, digging his fingers into the tree bark.

"I'm just—I think I'm getting sick? Going to go to bed early," Derek says, and it sounds completely implausible, but Stiles' dad seems to buy it.

"Good night, kid," he says, and there's the sound of rustling clothing that Stiles' brain eventually resolves into a hug, and then the sound of Derek thumping up the stairs.

 **don't worry about it,** the next text says. **go for a run. it helps.**

Stiles raises an eyebrow. Running has never once made anything better for him, unless they're talking about all of the times that running away from a vicious monster has kept him from becoming dinner; even then, he usually only runs until somebody else—usually somebody with enormous claws and completely disproportionate upper-body strength—can come and save his ass. Here and now, though, it actually feels like it might be a good idea; Derek's body is twitching and humming with a buzz of energy, an itch between his shoulder blades that fizzes and aches. 

He's about to take off when the phone buzzes again. **TAKE THE JACKET OFF BEFORE YOU SHIFT** , it says, and then next one says **shoes too** , and _oh_. Stiles does as Derek asks—first extracting his newly claw-ified hands from the tree trunk, which is actually kind of awesome—and, after some consideration, hangs the coat up on a low branch. It won't be visible from the driveway, and he'll grab it back before his dad leaves in the morning. The shoes he leaves on the ground, next to the tree. Feeling silly, he stretches, his arms over his head, and takes off at a slow run.

He's at the tree line before he knows it, and then he's charging into the woods, ducking between trees almost faster than he can notice them, taking deep, slow breaths as he runs faster and then faster still, feeling like he's only just getting started. When a deer jumps out in front of him, he swerves at the last minute and winds up on all fours, and that feels even better, so he goes with it: digs his fingers and his toes into the ground and lets his body run wild through the forest, tethered by the steady _tug_ of Derek’s presence. He may not be able to go far, but he can go fast, and that’s good enough for now.

*

He's back at the house before dawn, looking up at the second-story window of his bedroom and frowning. It still looks impossibly high up, but Stiles knows for a fact that last night he jumped straight up a tree last night, half-shifted, a distance of at least fifteen feet.

"Okay," he says, under his breath. "Okay, Stilinski, you can do this—just work your werewolf mojo, come on, make it happen." He crouches down, bracing himself, and then jumps, and he's honestly not expecting to make it, which is his excuse for why he totally overbalances when he lands on the roof and winds up clinging to an overhanging tree branch.

It's pretty freaking sweet.

From there, it's pretty easy to get the window open. He doesn't really bother locking it these days, figuring that the likelihood that somebody he knows will need to get in for help mostly outweighs the chances that somebody else will come knocking at his window. After a quick check to make sure his claws are fully retracted—Scott forgets, still, and it does a number on the woodwork every time—he pushes the window open and sticks his head in.

"Derek?"

Derek's still in bed, buried under the blankets, one foot sticking out from under the covers. Stiles snickers, a little, to see the mighty Derek Hale completely zonked out for once.

Not that Derek is particularly restful, even asleep—his toes keep flexing, curling and uncurling, and his heart rate, so easy to hear now, seems higher than it was last night. As Stiles watches, Derek turns over in his sleep, shoving his face out from under the blankets, and, yeah, that's not a happy face: Derek is biting at his lip, breathing in short, desperate gasps.

Stiles knows a nightmare when he sees one, and while ordinarily he wouldn't wake Derek up for a million dollars—he likes his face un-rearranged, thanks very much—this isn't exactly an ordinary situation.

"Derek," he says again, pulling himself through the window, "Derek, hey— _oh_." Inside, the smell hits him, and when Stiles takes a deep breath, it just confirms what he already knows. Derek may be having a dream, but it's…not a bad dream. Kind of the complete opposite, actually.

Stiles is totally going to back out of the room, preserve the honor of the bro-code while he still can, but then Derek throws the blankets back and he—doesn't.

It's nothing he hasn't seen before, of course—Stiles has been jerking it since he knew that that was an option—but at the same time, it's nothing he's ever seen before. Derek's jerking his cock slowly, almost lazily, his other hand cupped low over his balls; when his hand slides over the head of his cock, his hips twitch upwards. He's panting into the pillow now, pressing his face to the side like he's trying to get some air, gritting his teeth, and Stiles can empathize: he wants to take a deep breath, clear his head, but every bit of air that he can get smells like sex and sweat and it's just not getting better, here. 

He takes a tentative step back towards the window, but that's when he hears his dad down in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a travel mug; if he goes back out now, his dad will see Derek Hale sitting on the roof of the house, and then the shit will _really_ hit the fan. 

So, fine: inside it is. Stiles tries looking away, inspecting the posters on his wall, the dust accumulating on his doorframe, but that doesn't help either. Derek's freaky werewolf senses are more than prepared to compensate for Stiles not actually _watching_ Derek sleep-jerk it; as soon as Stiles glances away, all he can hear is the slick slide of skin on skin, the shift of Derek's body against the sheets, the low, rough noises Derek makes in the back of his throat. When Derek comes, Stiles can smell it, can practically taste it against the back of his throat, and he braces himself against the desk, just waiting for everything to be done.

Of course, his claws—always the fucking claws, jesus—go straight into the particle board, which promptly cracks like a shotgun; Stiles doesn't even have to look over to see that Derek's awake now.

"Sorry," Stiles says, before Derek can say anything. "Sorry, I just—I was going to come in, to study some more, but then you were—and then my dad was—and I'm just going to go, um, give you—yeah." He ducks out of the room without looking at Derek once, straight across the hall into the bathroom, where he slams the door shut and drops back against it, holding his hands far, far away from Derek's ridiculous werewolf boner. He's _not_ going to jerk off—that would be ridiculous, and also rude, even if Derek did do it first. It's not like he's even turned on right now, anyways; he's just got his wires crossed from smelling sex so early in the morning. He's a teenage boy: being turned on at inappropriate moments is basically his job. 

And anyway, that was _his_ body jerking off; so what if he _was_ turned on by it? There's probably some sort of pavlovian thing going on here—normally, when Stiles smells himself jerking off, it's because he's jerking off, so of course he gets turned on now.

Which, fine, okay: he's totally turned on right now, but he's not going to jerk off. That would be weird, and inappropriate, and _weird_ , and also he's got claws right now, which, ouch.

Not for the first time, Stiles wants to punch the witch right in her stupid witchy face.

*

The good news: their connection seems to be stretching faster as time goes by, and they've got several hundred feet feet of wiggle room now, which they test out in the backyard as soon as Stiles' dad is out of the house. 

"So at least I won't have to come into the school," Stiles says, pouring coffee into two mugs. "Because somehow I think somebody would notice that."

"You'd be surprised," Derek says. "Milk and sugar, please." Stiles grabs the milk from the fridge and slides it down the counter, taps his finger on the plastic tub full of sugar.

"Plus, today's Day 4, so you drop E block, so you won't have to deal with Harris at all, and you'll just have study first block, not lab." Derek tilts his head, frowning, and Stiles shakes his head. "No, dude, don't try to figure it out, it never makes any fucking sense—I've got the schedule in my binder, just follow the plan for Day 4 and you'll be fine." 

Stiles sighs. It's a shame that he doesn't have a free anymore, but apparently when you spend 90% of your free time (not to mention a good 20% of the time you're supposed to be in school) helping out the local werewolf contingent, it kind of does a number on your attendance record. It's like those charts about college life: _Social Life, Good Grades, Sleep: Pick Two_ , except in Stiles' case, it's more like, _Good Grades, Good Attendance, Not Dying: Pick Two!_ Stiles' grades are holding, though, and he's not dead, and on balance, he'll take those two over a spotless attendance record.

"So, no Harris, and you can study for calc during first block, that'll be…whatever," he says, thinking over his schedule. "Try not to talk in Morena's class; just check my notes if she asks you anything. Make sure you get a copy of the reference list from World Civ, though—I need to write a paper this week. English—" he shrugs. "Group presentations, but mine's not until Thursday, so you'll be fine—if Suzie asks you about the bibliography, just say you've got it under control and you'll bring it in tomorrow." Stiles nods. "And last block is history of cinema, so just make sure you take notes and you'll be fine."

"…okay," Derek says, eyes wide. "I—okay." He takes a sip of his coffee, frowns, takes another, makes a face.

"What," Stiles asks, "is my coffee not good enough?" When he takes a sip of his own, though, it tastes _wrong_ , bitter and harsh and just _gross_. "Ugh, what the—" Stiles grabs the bag of grounds from next to the machine—maybe his dad grabbed something new?—but it's the same Morning Roast they've been drinking all week. "Ugh, does coffee go bad? Because that is just rancid," he says. Derek nods, then freezes. "What?"

"Here," Derek says, shoving his cup of coffee into Stiles' hand. "Just—" he grabs Stiles' coffee, takes a long swig of it, nods. Stiles raises his eyebrow at Derek's cup of milky, sugary sludge, but takes a sip—a sip, and then a gulp, because _yes_ , it's perfect, sweet and delicate and exactly what he needs right now.

"I guess our tastebuds swapped, huh," he says, and Derek shrugs. "Okay, so—I hate pickles and raw onions, and the smell of horseradish makes me want to hurl, but I'm not actually allergic to anything. You?"

"Strawberries," Derek says, after a long moment, which—

"—really? Like, you're allergic to them, or you just don't like them, because—"

"Stiles."

"Okay." Okay. They can totally do this. "We can totally do this," Stiles says, and hopes to hell that he sounds like he believes it at least a little bit.

*

They avoid talking to anybody else by virtue of getting to school approximately two minutes before the first bell. Stiles isn't in study hall with anybody he knows, something he's pretty sure that Ms. Somers in the office did on purpose; normally it would piss him off, but today he's just relieved that Derek won't have to interact with anybody who might actually notice that's something's going on. Señor Flanagan, his study teacher, doesn't give a shit what they do so long as he can still hear his _telenovelas_ , so Derek can spend most of the block texting Stiles with questions about limits.

Stiles is crouched next to the bleachers, working out a problem longhand, trying to check Derek's work—Derek has the calculator, which makes sense, but is also kind of a huge pain—when the hair on the back of his neck starts standing up. It's impossible to say how he can tell that he's being watched—freaky wolf senses, what do you even want from him—but when he turns around, sure enough, there's Erica, watching him with raised eyebrows and crossed arms.

"Derek," she says. "I thought you were going to try _not_ getting arrested for loitering this semester." Stiles snorts out a laugh, before remembering belatedly that Derek probably wouldn't actually find that funny at all, even though it totally is. 

Erica just raises her eyebrows even higher and keeps staring at him. "Seriously," she asks, "is everything okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, trying to channel his inner taciturn asshole.

Erica, predictably, is not satisfied. "So you're here because…"

"Um." He wracks his brain, but there's nothing—fuck, why hadn't they spent ten minutes discussing a cover story—until suddenly he blurts out, "Stiles."

"Stiles?"

"He—we ran into a witch, yesterday," Stiles says, fleshing out the story on the fly. "Stiles got in the way of a spell; I just want to make sure there aren't any other problems."

"Okay then," Erica says, nodding; when Stiles takes a deep breath, he catches a scent that he doesn't recognize, one that smells like nothing so much as it smells of _mockery_. "Well, I'll keep an eye on him, just in case." With that, she turns around and heads back inside, presumably to tell everybody Stiles knows that Derek Hale is outside, creeping all over his everything.

 **ran into erica - told her that you (stiles) got cursed and i am monitoring you. also can you smell mockery?** He tosses the phone from hand to hand, waiting for a response, watching Erica from across the field.

 **ok.** Derek sends, and then, a few seconds later, **kind of, not really, i'll explain later**.

 **okay, cool. good luck** , Stiles sends, just as the tinny sound of the bell echoes out from the school.

 **thanks** , Derek sends, and then it's showtime.

*

The school day, it turns out, goes even slower when you're not actually in school; with nothing to do but hang around outside and listen to Derek going from class to class, time seems to drag even more than usual. It's impossible to know how Derek is doing on the calc test; all Stiles can hear is the scratch of pencils and slow, steady breathing, a quiet non-silence broken occasionally by Mrs. Fresser telling the class how much time they have left. Stiles runs a few laps around the field just to have something to do, climbs a couple of trees, and has a text queued up to send as soon as the bell goes.

 **it went fine** , Derek answers him. **i think i fucked up the bonus though**

 **no big deal** , Stiles sends. **i almost never get those**. Even when he thinks he's got one, Fresser's bonus questions are legendary in their ability to be not at all what they seem to be about. Seriously, this vampire thing—deceptive, full of illusions and sneakiness—is looking more likely by the hour.

Psych is next, which is actually kind of a bummer; Stiles had been looking forward to the lecture on abnormal psych for _weeks_. Stiles winds up leaning against a tree, taking notes of things to look up later, just in case Derek's notes aren't up to par. World Civ is slow, but fine; Stiles winces as Derek fumbles his way through a conversation with Lydia, but their cover seems to hold.

Day 4 means Stiles has lunch block before his study; Stiles texts him at the break and Derek meets him behind the bleachers, handing over half of a sandwich without a word. Stiles takes a bite, realizing all of a sudden that he's totally fucking starving. 

Werewolves, man. What the crap.

"So far so good?" he asks, and Derek shrugs.

"Calc was okay, and Civ was fine—does she always talk that fast?"

"Ms. Devereaux?" Stiles shrugs. "Pretty much, yeah; she's cool, though."

Derek nods. "And I took notes in psych, if you want to take a look." He rummages through Stiles' backpack, passes over the relevant notebook when Stiles makes grabby hands.

Derek's notes are surprisingly comprehensive; he's got two and a half pages of his freakishly tidy handwriting, complete with numbered bullet points and little diagrams. There are even a few sidebars, blocked off in heavy black lines, that Stiles doesn't remember Ms. Devereaux talking about at all. He taps a finger on one, raising his eyebrows at Derek, who shrugs.

"I majored in psych, in college," he says. "I just figured—I don't know, whatever," he says.

"Dude, thanks," Stiles says. "Also, you should probably go back in now."

Derek looks at his watch, eyebrows raised. "It's been twenty minutes," he says, and Stiles nods.

"And you get twenty-five, and my second study is on the other side of the building, so you'd better get moving." He stands when Derek does, figuring that it's better not to push their freaky bodyswap-bond any more than they have to. Plus, sitting on the other side of the building will at least be a change of scene.

Stiles' second study is with Mrs. Kelly, who is downright militant about study hall being a silent and productive place. Stiles usually spends the time getting as much homework as possible out of the way and rolling his eyes at Scott as he gazes longingly at Allison. Today, though, Allison's at the library—research for her Modern Civ project; he heard Scott say something to Isaac earlier—and Scott is back in BFF-mode. Which, normally, would be great; Stiles is all about more occasions for bro-times. Today, though…

"Are you okay, dude?" Through the window, Stiles watches as Scott leans backwards, faking a stretch and whispering out of the corner of his mouth to Derek. "Erica said you got cursed or something."

"It's nothing," Derek says, looking down at his paper. "I'm fine, Scott."

"But Erica said that Derek was here," Scott adds, and Derek, in a shocking display of unsubtlety, glances out the window towards the tree where Stiles is sitting. Scott follows his look, and Stiles can actually see his eyebrows go up. "Derek? What's up?"

"It's nothing, come on, Scott, you're gonna get detention, turn the fuck around," he says, and Scott snaps back to his work just as Mrs. Kelly looks up from her gradebook.

"Thanks, dude," Scott mutters, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Just do your homework," he says. From the seat behind Scott, Derek looks over, mouths a quiet _thanks_ towards the window.

So that's the second study. Stiles spends English looking over the notes Derek took in psychology, circling things that seem interesting, ideas for a final project bouncing around in the back of his mind, keeping half an ear on his classmates' presentations on symbolism the modern novel, which range from reasonable through unimaginative straight to the groan-worthy. When Jimmy Gallagher tries to argue that the white whale in _Moby Dick_ represents, "you know, a—like, a boner, right?" Stiles digs out Derek's phone and sends him a text.

**8===== >**

Stiles only has to strain his ears a little in order to hear the vibration of his phone, the slide of plastic on fabric, Derek's soft snort, the quiet click of keys.

**fuck you**

**what, you're not enjoying yourself?**

**i will rip you limb from limb.**

Stiles smirks. **you can try,** he sends, just as the bell rings and, mercifully, cuts off the rest of Jimmy's speech.

Modern Film is pretty boring, honestly—they're watching something that appears to have three lines of dialogue every hour. Going by the appreciative noises the class keeps making it's really awesome if you can actually _see_ it; as it is, Stiles spends the time out behind the gym, seeing how many push-ups he can do between each word spoken in the movie.

A _lot_ , as it turns out. Derek's werewolf body is basically insanely ripped. Not that Stiles didn't know that already, but seriously: _damn_.

When the last bell rings, Derek is out of school with a speed that would make any high schooler proud.

"Have a good day?" Stiles asks; it's almost comically easy to duck away from the punch that Derek swings at him.

"Fuck you," Derek says. "Are we done here? Can we go?"

"Um, no?" Turns out that even Stiles' puny human throat can manage a pretty credible growl, at least when Derek is driving. "Dude, I have lacrosse practice." Derek rolls his eyes theatrically, which Stiles actually does understand, but—"look, if I don't do at least two semesters of a varsity sport, I have to actually take _gym_. You wouldn't do that to me, would you?" Derek makes a face, like maybe he would, and Stiles shoves him. "Oh, fuck _you_." He must push harder than he means to, because Derek staggers back a few steps, and his hand comes up to rub at his shoulder. His shirt pulls to the side, and all of sudden Stiles can see the purple bruises smudged just under his collarbone. 

"Shit, dude," he says, stepping forward, "what happened?" As soon as he reaches out, though, he remembers: his hands on Derek's shoulders, pushing him back against the wall while they whispered, the tips of his fingers digging into Derek's shoulders—but of course those were Derek's freakishly strong werewolf fingers, and Stiles' wimpy human shoulders. He brushes his fingers against the marks and Derek makes a low, aching sound in the back of his throat, his whole body tensing up all at once. "Sorry!" Stiles says, jerking back, "Sorry, fuck, sorry—you should just go to lacrosse practice," he concludes helplessly. "I'll, um. Yeah."

Derek stares at him for a long moment, then turns and heads for the locker rooms. Stiles stays where he is, trying to get his heart rate back down to something that doesn't hammer in his ears, when he hears his name.

"—Stiles, I think?" It's Scott, probably walking from Modern Civ; he has last block with Allison on Day 4, and it almost always makes him late for practice.

"Really?" Allison sounds dubious. "Erica said they ran into a witch, but I pretty much figured that was bullshit."

"No, it totally is," Scott says, which, what the fuck, Scott? "But Derek was definitely hanging out in the big tree by the field during A block, and he was listening to me talk to Stiles during class." 

Allison snorts, the sound surprisingly undignified. "So Derek is creepy—that's not exactly groundbreaking news, honey." That much is true, at least. Stiles may have to consider Allison for his new best friend, since clearly Scott doesn't trust him like he deserves.

"Yeah, fine," Scott says, "but Stiles went out to talk to him at lunch, and when he got to class he was totally, you know." There's a gesture that Stiles can't parse just by listening, but Allison giggles, so it can't be good.

"Maybe he bumped into Lydia?" she gets out, which, uh oh, and then, "God, Scott, stop it, I'm never going to be able to look either of them in the face."

" You'll still look at _me_ , though, right?" Scott says, and then the whole thing devolves into kissing and Stiles tunes it back out.

So. Okay. Derek apparently went back to A block looking like Stiles looks around Lydia. Stiles is…not going to think about that. Nope. Totally not thinking about that at all in any way. He's going to watch lacrosse practice, and hey, look: here comes the team now.

Watching lacrosse practice turns out to be a total miscalculation, though. Joey and Kareem are both out sick, so instead of being safely on the sidelines, Derek is actually playing, doing stretches and sprints and drills with everybody else. Stiles honestly can't believe that nobody's catching on, because it's so utterly obvious that that's _Derek_ running up and down the field. Derek moves with a confidence that Stiles has never in his life felt, an unquestioning certainty that his body will do exactly what he needs it to. He's not necessarily faster than Stiles is on his own, or any stronger, but every movement is so smooth, so easy, that all Stiles can think about is Derek moving _him_ that way, putting those hands on his body, moving against Stiles with that same solid, steady power. Even from the bleachers, Stiles can smell the familiar-unfamiliar tang of sweat, can hear the thrum of Derek's heartbeat like it's being drummed against his own skin.

So, great. Now Stiles' borrowed werewolf body totally has a boner. A were-boner. A wolf-boner. Stiles looks away from his own body—what, it's not narcissism if it's not actually _him_ in there—and makes eye contact with Isaac.

Who winks. Fuck this noise, Stiles is leaving. He thumps down the bleachers, which is surprisingly difficult to do around the werewolf heat he's suddenly packing, and brushes past Allison without making eye contact.

"Hey, Derek," she says, and she smells like amusement and embarrassment, and seriously, fuck his life. Fuck his whole entire life. Stiles walks away from the field as fast as he can manage, and then stops, considering.

He could go around to the other side of the building—except, no, the field hockey team is practicing over there, _and_ the cheerleading squad, and the only thing that's creepier than a man in his late twenties watching a group of high school boys play lacrosse is a man in his late twenties watching a bunch of high school girls run around in short skirts. While sporting a stiffy. Thanks for the pedophilia charges, but really, no thank you.

The parking lot is no good either; Erica and Lydia tend to hang out there, waiting under a tree and judging everybody who walks by. He doesn't have the range to get home, and jerking it in the forest is just weird—because that is absolutely what Stiles is going to do. Stiles is going to jerk off in Derek Hale's body, and everybody is just going to have to deal with that fact.

It would probably be better if nobody else ever found out about it, but Stiles is being realistic, here. His friends are all a) werewolves and b) nosy as fuck; none of his secrets have ever lasted more than a week. He made it six days, once, but only because Isaac gave everybody the mermaid flu and none of them could smell a thing for four days.

Stiles considers his options, then turns and heads for the side of the building. There's a second entrance to the locker room there, one that nobody ever uses. It's not exactly classy, but there's something to be said for tradition.

The usual locker-room stench is even stronger through Derek's nose; somehow, though, it's not nearly as objectionable. The smell of Axe body spray is still pretty foul, true, but the rest of it—a potent combination of sweat, feet, and frustration, overlaid with the delicate aroma of boners—is surprisingly palatable. Stiles chalks it up to the part of Derek's wolf brain that secretly just wants to roll around in dead things, shrugs, and heads for the farthest bathroom stall to do his business.

He doesn't exactly make a habit of jerking it in the guys' locker room, but Stiles still knows the protocol: take the last stall, preferably when nobody else is there, be quick, and for God's sake wipe up your jizz. He still feels more than a little ridiculous, locking the door behind him against an empty room—like, what, does he think somebody's going to come in and ask him to make change for a twenty?

Once he shoves his hands into his pants, though, all bets are off. Derek's hands feel smaller than his, maybe a little tougher, but his dick is maybe even a little more sensitive than Stiles', especially at the head. Stiles winds up just barely gliding his hands over his dick, letting the sensation echo through him, each brush of his fingers magnified a thousandfold by Derek's super senses. It's good, it's _crazy_ good, and Stiles finds himself dragging it out, teasing himself with little half-strokes, the twitch of one finger just under the head. He moves his other hand down, pressing gently against his balls and then just behind them, and it's like getting struck by lightning: his entire body seems to light up, shivery and electric. Vaguely, he can hear himself gasping for breath, but there's another sound, twining around him like a warm gust of wind. It takes Stiles a minute to realize what it is—is there somebody else in the room? but, no, it's Derek, of course it is, it's Derek panting and grunting, out at the other end of their metaphysical tether, although presumably for a very different reason.

Once he starts about it, though, Stiles can't stop, the floodgates of his imagination well and truly open. He bites down hard on his lip as the images come to him: Derek, breathing heavily as he jerks Stiles off, quick and dirty and desperate just like he's doing now—or maybe not, maybe he'd be slow and thorough, maybe Derek would want to make Stiles ache for it. Maybe _Derek_ would want to ache for it, oh, now there's a thought: Derek, flat on his back, hands crossed over his head, letting Stiles touch and taste and stroke, shaking and groaning under Stiles' hands, on Stiles'—

It's easy too imagine, _too_ easy, with Derek's insanely responsive body under his hands, and Stiles lets his hands move faster, reaches his fingers back just a little further, presses gently _up_ and _in_ , and oh, _oh_ , that's it, game over, go directly to go, do not collect $200, but do feel free to come all over your borrowed body, because apparently your local alpha werewolf is really into butt stuff.

Stiles sags back against the wall, sucking in deep, shaky breaths of air, and slowly unrolls a wad of toilet paper from the dispenser. 

He is screwed—totally, completely, _unbelievably_ screwed—but that's no reason not to be polite, right?

*

Stiles gets himself back together by the time lacrosse practice is over, and if he deliberately goes and waits downwind from the lacrosse field, well, his car is parked over on that side, okay? It totally makes sense, and definitely doesn’t have anything to do with not wanting the wolfy contingent of the team to smell that he totally just jerked off in the guys’ locker room.

When the team breaks, Stiles realizes the depths of his miscalculation, because they all head off together, a cheerfully chaotic mess of arms and legs and companionable shoving. They’re heading straight for the showers, of course, because that’s what you _do_ after practice, oh, fuck, they’re going to smell him, and Derek is going to know—

Stiles stumbles toward the field, fumbling for his phone, when he hears his name.

“Stiles. Stiles!”

“Huh?” _Totally_ unconvincing, crap, they should have spent time practicing with their names, but Scott just shrugs it off with a shove to Derek’s shoulder. “I think Derek needs to talk to you?” And, _yes_ , Derek’s looking over at Stiles, and he’s frowning, but he grabs his bag and trots over when Stiles beckons.

“What?” he asks, once they’re within regular speaking distance. “Also, where the fuck were you?” 

“I was—“ Stiles hesitates, looking past Derek’s shoulder; Scott, Isaac, and Boyd are standing together, doing the kind of deliberate not-watching that just means they’re listening their wolfy little hearts out. Past them, Jackson is leaning against the wall, and Stiles would totally think he was sending a text except for how he can’t hear any sounds from the phone. “—I was looking for the witch,” he says, finally. “ _Stiles_.” Derek opens his mouth, then glances over his shoulder and shuts it. 

“Find anything?” he asks, and Stiles shrugs.

“Not really,” he says, and tilts the screen so that Derek can see what he’s been typing: **do you really want to deal with them all in the locker room?**

“Think I’m going to shower at home,” Derek says, nodding, and turns to wave to Scott—who waves right back, the fucking traitor, yeah _right_ he wasn’t listening.

“Sounds great,” Stiles says, as they walk towards the parking lot together. “Oh, hey, Stiles—can you give me a ride, do you think?” Derek rolls his eyes, but nods—which hey: that’s even pretty normal, for them.

In the car, they encounter a whole new problem.

“Stiles,” Derek says, gripping the steering wheel hard enough that Stiles is damn glad that Derek is temporarily claw-less. “Stiles, I went to school. I took your stupid calculus test. I went to _lacrosse_ practice,” he says, and the tips of his fingers are white with the force of his grip. “Can I _please_ go home now?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, holding his hands up in classic placate-the-hostile formation, “sure, fine, of course, just—we have to go to my house first, is all. I’m _sorry_ ,” he adds, when Derek starts to growl. “Look, I know, but my dad calls the home line at a quarter to four—we just have to answer it, tell him that I’m going out, and then you’re free and clear for a few hours.” Or, well, mostly free and clear; Stiles will be in for more than a few awkward questions when he gets home, but since he’ll be in his own body again, he’s more than prepared to take the heat. 

“ _Fine,_ ” Derek snarls, and slams the car into gear.

Derek, it turns out, is an asshole driver no matter what car or what body he’s using; he takes corners at speeds that have Stiles intensely aware of the Jeep’s relatively high center of mass, and zooms down straightaways like he thinks he’s going to be late for something.

“Dude,” Stiles says, “I get that high school sucks, but can you please try not to get me arrested for speeding? Not all of us can hulk smash our way out of a cell, remember,” he adds, which makes Derek snort, but does seem to convince him to slow his roll somewhat.

Back at the house, Derek charges up the stairs and slams his way into the bathroom without saying a word, which: fair enough, really. Stiles considers his options and decides that hanging out in the bedroom is the least creepy of his options; it’s _his_ bedroom, after all.

Except, _fuck_. Stiles didn’t go back into the room after his accidental voyeurism stunt before school; he would have thought that the smell would have dissipated, but apparently not. It’s not overpowering or anything, but it smells like sex, a rich, heavy smell that seems to steal all of the air from Stiles’ lungs. He’s suddenly, intensely aware of his own smell, sweaty and rough and undeniably _Derek_ , and, fuck. _Fuck_. 

The entire point of jerking off in the locker rooms was to get this out of his system, but so much for _that_ plan. Derek’s dick seems plenty ready to get back into the game, too, pressing against the fly of Derek’s jeans. Stiles swallows hard, clenching his hands until the tips of his claws press against his skin, trying to keep himself under control, but it’s hard—hah, _hard_ —when all he can smell is Derek and sweat and _sex_ , when all he can hear is the slow shush of water over Derek’s skin. 

A sound which then stops when Derek turns the water off—no question, that’s the squeak of the tap being shut, the halfhearted spatter of the last few drops hitting the floor of the bathroom, the rustle of a towel against damp skin. Derek’s done with his shower, which means that any minute he’s going to come into the bedroom, the bedroom where Stiles is, the bedroom that reeks of sweat and spunk and _fucking_.

But, no, okay, hold up. Stiles takes a deep breath, then holds his shirt over his nose and tries again. Derek doesn’t have his usual freaky super-senses right now; he probably can’t smell anything beyond the usual background funk of Stiles’ bedroom. He certainly can’t smell that Stiles has a boner, because Stiles has never once in his life smelled somebody else’s boner, and he has spent a _lot_ of time hanging around with Scott. And if the smell thing isn’t going to be an issue, all Stiles has to do is…act normal.

Oh god. He’s _screwed_. Derek is going to—

“—Hi, Derek.” Stiles just about swallows his tongue, because apparently what Derek is going to do is walk back into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, and stalk straight over to the closet to find clothes. It’s probably kind of creepy to be ogling Derek like this, when what Stiles is really ogling is his own body, but there’s something about it, something indefinably _Derek_ about the damp, glistening line of Derek’s spine, the smell of skin and soap that follows Derek across the room. That’s okay, though, because Stiles is nothing if not honest with himself, and “kind of creepy” is one of the nicer things that can be said about him.

“Derek,” he says, and then abruptly loses his train of thought when Derek turns around. “Um.” Stiles scrambles for words, blinking hard to clear his mind. “Um, do you have to—I mean, once my dad calls, we can totally go back to your house,” he says, finally. “I just need you to answer the phone, and then we can—whatever.” 

Right on cue, the phone rings, and Stiles grabs it off the desk and holds it out to Derek, who takes it with the hand that’s not holding his towel in place.

“Hi, Dad,” he says. “No, school was fine.”

“And your calculus test?” Oh, oh, that is _not_ a good voice, that is the voice of Stiles’ dad’s deepest and most abiding suspicion, Stiles is going to have to do _so_ much tapdancing to gloss over this whole incident.

“Fine,” Derek says, and then, when Stiles raises his eyebrows and gestures at him, “I mean, I don’t know, I think I bombed the bonus, and there was a question about tangents that totally screwed me up, but I think I did okay?”

“Well, good,” Stiles’ dad says. “You’ll have to say thank you to Derek Hale, I guess,” he says, and Derek makes a noise that could, in some cultures, be considered a laugh. 

“Um, yeah,” he says. “Actually, I’m going to—he needs some help with the house, so I’m going to go over for a few hours, if that’s cool?” Stiles thumps his head into his hands; the first rule of doing shit your parents don’t approve of is _not giving them a chance to object_ , god, is Derek _new_?

Stiles’ dad doesn’t seem to mind, though, even though Stiles can totally hear him laughing on the other end of the phone line.

“Can’t his pack help?” Derek starts to stammer out a response, and Stiles’ dad out and out laughs at him. “It’s fine, Stiles—just be back by curfew,” he says. “And be safe,” he adds.

Derek looks like he’s just taken a baseball bat to the back of the face. “Safe?” he says.

“You know how I worry about you, son,” Stiles’ dad says. “Just—promise me something?”

“Um.” Derek’s eyes are wide and panicked, and he looks like he wants to hand the phone off to Stiles, which, fuck, _no_ , what the hell is he thinking? “Sure,” he says, eventually.

“Let somebody else handle the power tools, Stiles,” Stiles’ dad says, and hangs up, cackling. 

Derek stares at the phone, letting out a shaky breath.

“Your dad,” he says, and Stiles nods.

“He’s basically a huge jerk,” he agrees. “But, um. We can go to your house?” Derek shrugs, and Stiles frowns. “What, so now you don’t need to go do—what did you even need to do?”

“Nothing.” And Derek’s just standing there, standing and staring at Stiles like maybe he _can_ smell boners, maybe Stiles has been able to smell boners his entire life and he’s never realized. “Nothing,” he says again, “just—“ he shakes his head, hunches his shoulders, like there’s something he’s trying to hide, like maybe—

—and, yeah, Stiles knows that look. Stiles has made that face; Stiles basically _patented_ that awkward hunch: that is the official Stiles Stilinski Awkward Boner dance, right there. He takes a deep breath, just to confirm, and, yup: Derek’s hard, pressed against worn-thin terry toweling.

“Derek,” Stiles says, and Derek huffs out a breath, turning back to the closet.

“Your _body_ ,” he says, as Stiles’ dick is personally offending him, but he doesn’t move when Stiles steps closer.

Stiles just takes another deep breath. “Yeah?”

“It’s—how do you _live_ like this?” Derek says. “It’s—“ he breaks off, shivering, when Stiles brushes the backs of his fingers along his shoulder. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes. “God, just—and you can smell _everything_ , dude, how do you ever get anything done?” Derek’s shoulders shake in a quiet, shaky laugh, and Stiles leans forward just enough to scrape his teeth against the delicate skin over Derek’s spine. 

He’s always liked the look of that: teeth on skin, not hard enough to mark or even really to hurt, just holding, solid and steady. The sting of his fingers over the back of his own neck doesn’t quite do it, but it’s enough to make his stomach clench, hot and shivery, and Stiles has always wanted to try the real deal with somebody else. There’s tons of science behind it, plenty of logical reasons to find it hot, but Stiles doesn’t think about any of those; he just sees the thin skin, flushed from Derek’s shower, and leans forward to taste.

There’s a long, breathless moment where neither of them move, still as a pair of statues. Stiles thinks that maybe he was wrong, maybe he misunderstood, and then Derek shudders, his spine curving as he leans back against Stiles, and the smell of arousal in the room gets thicker, stronger. Stiles sucks in a breath, nosing against Derek’s ear, and Derek groans, pressing back against Stiles’ body, letting his head drop to one side until Stiles can reach his neck. Which, no need to tell Stiles twice: he lets his hands settle gently on Derek’s hips, bringing their bodies closer together, and bites down gently on the side of Derek’s neck.

“Derek,” he says, and Derek makes a noise that sounds like it’s meant to be Stiles’ name, maybe. Stiles presses his face into the side of Derek’s neck, exploring the clean, fresh taste of Derek’s skin, nosing behind Derek’s ear—and then he yelps as Derek spins around and pushes him backwards until his knees hit the edge of his bed.

“Derek,” he says again, but doesn’t manage anything else, because Derek has dropped his towel and is climbing into Stiles’ lap, his legs spread on either side of Stiles’ hips and his dick rubbing against Stiles’ stomach, leaving little points of wetness against the material. “Uh,” Stiles says, coherently, and then makes a series of seriously embarrassing vowel sounds as Derek unbuttons his jeans and pulls his dick out, grasping the two of them together.

Derek, Stiles realizes quickly, is definitely at an advantage here: he has way more practice with his body than Stiles does, and he’s not shy about using it. Derek jerks the two of them slowly but firmly, rubbing his thumb right under the head of his own dick, and, god, have Stiles’ hands always been this big? Because they feel _enormous_ , big and hot and everywhere, and Stiles jerks his hips up as much as Derek will let him and groans.

“Fuck,” he says, grabbing onto Derek’s hips and holding on, and Derek goes with it, lets his hips slide into a slow, dirty grind, rubbing their dicks together, one hand clenched down on Stiles’ shoulder. He takes his other hand away from their dicks, and Stiles chokes on his protests when Derek licks his hand, _Stiles’_ hand, gets it damp and messy and then wraps it right back around their dicks until everything is slick and disgusting and incredibly, insanely hot.

“Derek,” Stiles says, but then Derek does something with his wrist, a twist that changes the angle and the pressure just _so_ , and Stiles bucks his hips once, twice, and comes all over Derek’s hand, his belly, his dick.

“Stiles,” Derek says, hesitating, holding still as Stiles pants his way through the tail end of his orgasm. He’s frowning, awkward and stiff, like maybe he’s regretting this; when he shifts his weight, though, Stiles tightens his grip and pulls Derek down against him.

“No way, dude,” he says. “My turn now.” Because yeah, Derek’s got a ton of experience pushing his own buttons, but Stiles knows his own body pretty well, knows what gets him up, and like _hell_ is he missing the chance to turn the tables on Derek. 

He grabs Derek’s wrist and pulls, curling Derek’s hand around his dick, and tugs until Derek settles into a quick, slick rhythm, jerking himself off with a hand slick with come. Once he’s satisfied that Derek’s doing okay, Stiles slides his free hand to Derek’s hip, then moves it further, scraping gently at the skin of Derek’s back with his fingernails. Derek jerks, grunting, and tips forward until his forehead is resting against Stiles’ shoulder. 

He’s breathing hard, and Stiles can feel the gust of damp air through his t-shirt. He can hear the small, rough sounds that Derek’s making, can practically _feel_ the thrum of his pulse and the bellows pump of his lungs. Most of all, though, he can smell it, can smell them, the stink of sex and nervousness and the tang of want. He leans forward, mouths at Derek’s naked shoulder, and feels the groan that Derek makes echo through their entwined bodies.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says, and he sounds desperate, sounds _wrecked_ , and Stiles brushes his lips against the point of Derek’s shoulder, slides his hands further down the swaying line of Derek’s back.

“Shh, it’s cool,” he says, lost in the feel of Derek against him and around him. “I’ve got you, just—“ and he rubs his fingertips across Derek’s asshole, firmly, back and forth once, twice, and Derek makes a shocked, broken noise and comes, shaking, between their bodies.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “yeah, Derek—”

—and then the world goes dark and spinny and he blacks the fuck out.

*

They’re only out for about twenty minutes, and a quick inventory when they wake up reveals that they’re back in their own bodies, slumped together on the bed, mostly naked and smelling like—well, smelling like spunk, even to Stiles’ nose.

“Wasn’t it supposed to last until tonight, though?” Derek doesn’t sound like he’s complaining, though; he’s stretched out on his side next to Stiles, one warm hand rubbing circles against Stiles’ stomach. 

“Yeah, well.” Stiles shrugs, itching his shoulders against his sheets, reveling in the familiar stretch of his own muscles. “Clearly she’s not a very good witch, huh?” He snorts. “Maybe I should offer to tutor her—“ Just then, the thoughts that have been simmering at the back of Stiles' mind since 11:04 on Sunday come to a boil, and he sits bolt upright, dragging the sheets with him as he scrambles for his yearbook.

"Stiles?"

"Hold on, fuck, just a second—where are you, come on, you stupid— _hah_!" Yearbook in hand, Stiles throws himself back onto the bed, flipping pages until he finds the one he's looking for.

"Robotics club, robotics—Elena Jenkins, _there_ you are." He taps the face in the picture, the face of the witch from the woods.

"She goes to your school," Derek says, in the flat voice of somebody who would very much like to fuck some shit up.

Stiles nods. "She's, like, basically a genius at robotics, but she kind of sucks at calculus—Lydia's been tutoring her, they have B block together."

"And she's a witch?"

Stiles spreads his hands. "Apparently? Probably she was just trying to do better on the test; Lydia said she flunked the first one hardcore. Apparently her parents totally freaked out on her." He looks down at Elena Jenkins, flicking the corner of the page with his finger. "You have to feel bad for her—she probably just wanted a little good luck." He smirks.

"Stiles." Derek glares at him, but Stiles just lets his grin spread across his entire face.

"I guess we were the ones—hey!" he says, and doesn't even object when Derek wrestles him flat onto his belly, holding him down with strong hands on Stiles’ shoulders. He hits one of the bruises—which aren’t as bad as they look, actually; good to know—and Stiles shivers, arches up into Derek’s hands. Derek hesitates, then presses down again, more deliberately, and Stiles flushes hot and excited all over again.

“Keep that up,” he says, his voice hoarse, “and you’ll be the one getting _lucky_ , big guy.”

There’s a pause, and then Derek is groaning and grabbing a pillow, whacking Stiles over the head while he cackles—but fuck Derek, anyways. 

After all, it's not like it's not _true_.


End file.
